Seb lives in a 1930s-looking block in Islington, and as we get out of the taxi I can’t help laughing, because he was totally fibbing.

“There’s a ramp, look,” I point out. “As well as steps.”

“Ah yes.” Seb nods. “What I meant was, it would be very kind if you could help me up the ramp.”

He strides up the ramp—without my aid—and I follow him, giggling, and then we’re in the lift and rising up to the fourth floor, where he ushers me through a gray-painted front door.

“Here we are,” he says as the door closes behind us. “Home.”

He gestures around, and I’m vaguely aware of a pale wooden floor with white walls, but to be honest, his flat is the last thing I’m interested in. I put my arms around his neck, which is something I’ve been longing to do all evening, and close my eyes, inhaling him.

His shoulders are the right height. He smells good. He feels good. His lips brush against mine and I give a little whimper, because I really, really want this. Does he realize this? Does he realize it?

Yes, of course he does. (I may actually be a little drunk.)

As his mouth meets mine properly, warmly, I press up against him hard and he makes a deep, indistinct sound.

“Wait, your ankle,” I say, suddenly breaking away.

“What does my ankle have to do with it?” Seb looks confused.

“Dunno,” I admit, and I start to giggle. “Health and safety?”

“You’re delicious,” says Seb, drawing back to survey me. “And as you know, I still owe you big time. Big time.”

He kisses the side of my neck and I feel the light brush of his teeth. And the thought that we have all night ahead of us makes me dizzy with lust.

“So … this is you paying off what you owe?” I manage, my breath coming in short pants.

“This is me chipping away at it,” he says, slowly unbuttoning my shirt. “Little by little. I know it’ll take a while.… Oh my God.” His eyes darken at the sight of my breasts. “How long will it take to work off my debt? Forever, I hope.”

“I’ll let you know when you’re there.” I murmur as his lips gently meet my collarbone. My head is thrown back in bliss and I never want this to end either. “I’ll let you know.”

—

The night is a blur of sex and sleep and sex again. Some time in the early hours of the morning, I find myself staring at him in the dim bedroom light, at the strong, lithe form of him. His back has a curve to it like the sweep of a boat. I steal out a hand to stroke it, wondering whether he’s awake, when he turns and his eyes glint at me.

“Do you sail?” I say, half sleepily.

“No. Used to row, though.”

“Huh.” I nod my head: That makes sense. Then I hear myself saying, “Do you believe in the one? Do you believe in fate?”

I’m not expecting him to take me seriously—in fact, almost at once I regret saying something so needy. Ryan would have said, “Totally, babe,” without even listening properly, but Seb is silent. He’s staring up at the ceiling. He seems to be thinking.

“The rational part of my brain,” he says at last, “understands that everything is random. There are a million possibilities in the universe. Us meeting is just one of those possibilities, and just as meaningless.”

He sounds so matter-of-fact, I feel my heart droop a little. But then he carries on, in the same tone:

“The thing is, though, I can’t imagine a world that didn’t bring us together. We were meant to be. Don’t you feel it? You were meant to walk into Café Allegro. The water molecules were meant to fall though the ceiling. It’s been event on event on event. Your parents bought a shop in Acton. Mine didn’t move to France.”

“Were they going to?” I say in surprise.

“They thought about it when I was eight. Imagine—I wouldn’t even have lived in this country. It’s all been coming toward this moment.” He rests his head on his hand to gaze at me, a shaft of moonlight falling on his cheekbone.

“This exact moment,” I echo, teasing him.

“This precise moment right here.”

“So this is pretty epic.” I gesture, rumpling the duvet with a smile. It seems quite mundane, for an epic moment.

Although, actually, what more-momentous instant is there in life than being in bed with the person you feel is right? Really, really right? As these thoughts pass through my head, I suddenly feel light-headed, almost scared. Because he is right for me. He is, he is.

“So … this is it?” I say lightly. “This is what it’s all been heading for? This is as good as it gets?”

“No. It’s only going to get better.” He pulls me toward him, his mouth gently finding the crease of my neck, his body warm and safe. “It’s only going to get better.”


Twenty

The light dazzles my eyelids and I feel a mouth softly kissing mine, and I find myself looking dazedly up at Seb’s face.

Seb … Oh my God … The whole thing rushes back into my disbelieving, joyful brain.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know what time you wanted to wake up.…”

“Yes,” I say, rubbing my face. “No. I … Thank you. What time is it?”

“Eight.”

“Right.” I think for a moment, then find my phone in the tangle of clothes on the floor and text Greg to take charge of opening up.

“OK.” I flop back on the pillows. “I’m off the hook.”

“So am I,” admits Seb. “I’ve called into the office, told them I’ll be late. I didn’t want to rush away.” He sits on the bed and looks down at me. “Right now I don’t want to go anywhere.”

We’re silent for a while, just looking at each other. Memories of last night are flickering through my head and, I’m pretty sure, his too. As though reading my mind, he reaches for the coffee sleeve, which is lying discarded on the floor.

We scribbled a bit on that last night. It was a bit of a thing. It was fun.

“How’s my debt payment coming along?” he says, tracing his finger down the entries. “I can’t quite tell from this.…”

“Oh, you’re doing well.” I grin at him. “You did me a few favors, remember?”

“I think we were about even on that score.” His eyes widen as he reads the scrawled writing, and he looks up. “Miss Farr, you have a dirty mind.”

“You can talk!” I grab the coffee sleeve off him and feign shock as I read it. “This is X-rated.” I jab at his last entry. “And I don’t even know what that means.…”

“I’ll illuminate.” His eyes gleam at me. “Later. Breakfast?”

As I follow him out of the bedroom, I glance around curiously. I didn’t get much of a look at his flat yesterday. There’s a big main reception room with a kitchen off it, where Seb is filling the kettle. It has wooden floors and some modern art on the walls and two low sofas, covered in gray felt. It’s impressive. It’s cool. Although, weirdly, it doesn’t seem very him.

It’s not as nice as his office, I realize. His office is full of books and ornaments and character. This is a bit sad-looking. A bit hotel-like. The only hint of character in the place is a massive stack of magazines piled against one wall. I mean, massive. In fact, it’s lots of stacks. They stretch nearly all the way along the wall, and are at least three feet high.

As I wander over to them, I realize that some of the magazines are still in their plastic—in fact, most of them are—and they’re all titles about music: Total Guitar. Vintage Rock. Country Music. Some are quite old, but the newest ones are from last week. Does he play the guitar? He never mentioned it.

“Cup of tea?” Seb says, bringing one out. “Or I can do coffee if you prefer?”

“Tea is great.” I smile back at him. “Thanks. Nice flat! Swanky!”

It suddenly occurs to me that he probably inherited some money or whatever when his mother died. Shit. It’s probably really tactless to say how nice his flat is.

“So … music!” I say, changing the subject. I gesture at the piles of magazines. “I had no idea.”

“Oh no.” Seb follows my gaze. “That’s not me. James was the music nut. My brother.”

“Right,” I say after a pause. “Of course.” I have no idea where to go next with this conversation, because my head is full of questions but I don’t want to ask any of them aloud. Why have you got so many magazines still stacked up? Why are you still subscribing to magazines you’re not interested in? Isn’t this a bit … weird?

“I should cancel the subscriptions, I guess,” says Seb easily. “I’ll do it one of these days.”

“Right,” I say again, and his voice is so relaxed, I find myself relaxing too. It’s only a quirk of his. We all have quirks.

“I know you’re a professional chef,” says Seb, interrupting my thoughts, “so I hardly dare suggest this, but I could make you some pancakes, if you like. Or waffles?”

“Waffles?” I say, impressed. “Homemade waffles?”

“I like cooking. Although I might have to go and buy some ingredients—”

“Don’t buy anything,” I say firmly. “Let’s have whatever you’ve got. Toast. Or nothing. Just tea is fine.”

We make toast and take it back to bed, and breakfast turns into more sex and then lying in each other’s arms, neither of us speaking. And I want to stay here forever.

“I can’t,” I groan at last. “I can’t. I must go.”

“Same.” Seb sighs.

“And I’ll have to go home for some clothes,” I say, in sinking realization. “I must get up.”

I have a quick shower; then, while Seb’s in the bathroom, I get dressed and roam around his flat. I notice the good knives in the kitchen—he obviously really does like cooking—and look through his DVDs. Then I venture down the hall and come to another door. I can’t resist trying the handle, but it won’t open. It’s locked.

At once I feel guilty and intrusive for even trying to open it, and I hastily return to the living room. As Seb appears, his hair still damp, smelling of Molton Brown shower gel, I say casually, “So how big is the flat altogether?”